Careless Love

by Peter Robinson

  He made an effort to put the business as far out of his mind as he could. Neil Diamond singing “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon” provided some distraction, however unwelcome. He was looking forward to a fine dinner, decent wine and, best of all, entertaining conversation. It would be good to get to know Zelda better. He realized he didn’t really know very much about her at all.

  The music would be a treat, too, better than what he was listening to now. Ray was an old sixties guy, like Banks himself, only he had never expanded his horizons to include classical music and jazz, so tonight it was going to be the real thing all the way.

  Annie drew to a halt outside the low-roofed cottage—Ray’s only complaint was that it was a bit small after the spread he had enjoyed in Cornwall for so many years—and they both stood still and took in the silence punctuated only by the occasional late bird call and whistling wind for a few moments before knocking at the door. Despite the chill, it was another clear evening, the sky studded with stars and the half-moon shining bright.

  Ray Cabbot opened it and ushered them into the hall. Annie gave her father a hug and Ray and Banks shook hands.

  “Drinkies, anyone?”

  “G&T, please,” said Banks.

  “Not for me,” said Annie, slipping off her coat. “Designated driver.”

  Ray hung it up for her beside Banks’s. “You can always stop over.”

  “I don’t plan on getting drunk. Besides, I have to drop Alan off at home.”

  Ray scratched his head. “Well, golly gee, we’ve only got one small spare bedroom but you’re both welcome to it,” he said with a big grin.

  Annie thumped his arm. “Stop it, you’ll embarrass me.”

  “Embarrass? You? If pigs could fly.”

  Annie grinned at him. “I’ll have a glass of wine with dinner later and that will be my limit.” She rubbed her hands together. “A bit brisk out there.”

  “Go through to the living room,” said Ray. “The fire’s lit. Zelda’s just doing some last-minute fiddling with dinner.”

  The room was lit by dozens of candles on the low tables, mantelpiece, everywhere, and a log fire crackling in the hearth. The paintings on the walls appeared ghostly in the candlelight. Ray’s studio was upstairs, Banks knew, in what would have been a large front bedroom, facing the stunning southern view and catching plenty of light.

  Ray bent over the cocktail cabinet to mix Banks’s drink and handed it to him. Banks could smell something delicious cooking in the kitchen—a stew of some sort flavored with herbs and spices. The new Neil Young CD was playing. Well, not so new. Banks remembered reading in MOJO, that Hitchhiker was recorded in 1976 and not released until years later. Neil was in the middle of a haunting acoustic version of “Powderfinger” that Banks thought almost as good as the electric version on Live Rust.

  And it probably wasn’t a CD. He remembered that Ray was a vinyl freak, and if Hitchhiker was available on vinyl, that would be the version he bought. Banks had let his own extensive collection slip away over the years. He had moved the boxes of LPs up to Eastvale from London when he first came up to work there in the mid-eighties. It was after that when he bought a CD player and made the switch. He sold a few of his records to the used vinyl shops that had started springing up, but then he lost the rest of his collection in a fire, when a villain set fire to Newhope Cottage with Banks in it, drugged on the sofa.

  Banks accepted his gin and tonic and took a gulp. It was strong.

  The door opened and Zelda made her entry, wearing figure-hugging jeans and a white knitted cashmere jumper. She was tall and slender, long-legged and small-breasted. Willowy, perhaps, but not a blonde. Her wavy black hair tumbled over her shoulders and framed an oval face. She had exquisite cheekbones, and there was something distinctly Eurasian about her eyes and flawless complexion. The only jarring feature was a slightly crooked nose, which had clearly been broken once. But as so often with such imperfections, it merely managed to enhance her beauty. Most of all, it was her eyes that drew Banks in. Dark and beguiling, they spoke of a sadness beyond words. All in all, Banks thought, she was probably one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

  Ray and Zelda certainly made an odd couple, and not only because of the age difference. They were actually a refreshing rebuke to those who took issue with older men and younger women. While Zelda was only thirty, she had an aura of having lived about her, and the wisdom and experience of a much older person—she was what one of Banks’s previous girlfriends would have called an “old soul”—and while Ray was over seventy, his soul was young, and everything about him sang of sprightliness, creativity, youthful energy and enthusiasm.

  Zelda sat casually, leaning back in the armchair, long legs crossed, and lit a cigarette. “Alan. Annie. It is so good to see you.” Her slightly accented English merely added to her exotic persona. Zelda came from somewhere in Eastern Europe. Banks vaguely remembered Ray mentioning a small town in Moldova, the name of which was hard to pronounce, along with a past shrouded in mystery and tragedy that had only been vaguely hinted at thus far. “How are my two favorite detectives?”

  “Looking forward to dinner,” said Banks.

  “Hah. It will be dreadful. Raymond insisted on adding too much chilli pepper. It will burn your tongue right off.” Zelda was the only person Banks knew who called Ray “Raymond.”

  “He definitely does have a liking for spicy food,” Banks said.

  “Always did,” Annie muttered.

  “Don’t be so soft,” Ray said, joining them. “It’ll be delicious. Just wait and taste.” He raised his glass. “To crime.”

  Banks and Annie exchanged a glance, then shrugged and joined in the toast.

  Banks had noticed on the only other occasion they had all met that Zelda and Annie had tended to circle one another, as if they couldn’t quite make up their minds how to relate. They were friendly on the surface. There was certainly no open animosity, perhaps none at all, just a hint of jealousy on Annie’s part, as a woman might feel when she meets someone younger and more beautiful than herself. Annie was also naturally protective of her father.

  Though Zelda and Ray had lived together in Cornwall for over a year, they had only been up in Yorkshire for a short time, and neither Banks nor Annie had got to know her well. Ray was the kind who liked to spring surprises, and though he had mentioned Zelda from time to time, he hadn’t explained the full extent of their relationship.

  Like Ray, Zelda was an artist. She painted occasionally, but mostly she worked at pottery, jewelery and sculpture, which she intended to sell at local craft fairs and folk festivals. She also had some sort of mysterious job that required her to spend a few days in London every now and then. When they had first met, she had given Banks a small carved wooden object she had made that felt alive and seemed to twist and curve gently in his hand when he held it. She said it was meant to calm people down, like worry beads and rubbing pebbles, and he looked as if he needed calming down. He did, too. And it worked. He used it at work quite often.

  Zelda finished her cigarette and went into the kitchen to “rescue” dinner, as she put it. Ray changed the record. Banks strained to listen for a moment to the music, unsure of what it was, then he said, “Donovan? ‘Legend of a Girl Child Linda.’ You skipped the first track on the album.”

  “Yeah, ‘Sunshine Superman’ was always a bit too hippy-dippy for me. A bit too flowers in your hair.”

  Banks laughed. “And this isn’t?”

  “Nah. This is nice. The mono version, of course.”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

  But it was “nice,” Banks had to agree, the soft, slightly sibilant voice, a haunting melody, and sparse orchestral backing—here a few strings, there a touch of woodwinds—seemed to emphasize the song’s ethereal quality. He hadn’t listened to it for years. Donovan had always been the poor man’s Dylan until this album, Banks remembered, where he set out to forge his own medieval troubador brand of folk and jazz.


  Five minutes later, Zelda called them into the dining room, which shared the back of the cottage with the kitchen itself. There were candles already lit all over the place, creating an intimate and relaxing atmosphere in the small space, casting shadows on the walls. Ray served plates of what he called a sort of Moroccan-cum-Mexican beef bourguignon, complete with button mushrooms and pearl onions, served with roasted root vegetables and basmati rice. Whatever it was, it was delicious, Banks thought as he took his first taste, and not too hot at all. Ray had opened a bottle of burgundy earlier, and it went well with the food. Annie took only a small glass.

  There were paintings and sketches in various stages of completion all over the place, even in the kitchen, propped against the wall, or hanging on it, including a series of beautiful charcoal nude studies of Zelda. She caught Banks trying not to look at one of them and gave him an enigmatic smile.

  Conversation wandered from compliments on the food and how nice the cottage was to more personal matters, and the subject of first meetings came up.

  Zelda peered over her glass at Annie and asked, “How did you and Alan meet? Over a dead body? Something romantic like that?”

  Annie seemed thrown for a moment. She glanced at Banks, who simply gestured for her to go on and tell the story.

  “Well, sort of,” she said, with her eyes still on Banks. “As a matter of fact, it was a skeleton. A very old skeleton. It had been buried since the war.”

  Zelda clapped her hands. “I knew it would be romantic,” she said.

  Annie frowned at the interruption. “We were on a bridge,” she went on. “I was already at the scene and Alan was trying to get to it. I stopped him. I didn’t know who he was, and he . . . well, let’s just put it this way, he wasn’t exactly dressed like a detective chief inspector.”

  “And you call jeans, sunglasses and red wellies suitable attire for detective sergeant?” Banks countered.

  “It was muddy,” Annie said. “Anyway,” she went on, “we almost had a fight on the bridge, like Robin Hood and Little John.”

  “I know that story,” said Zelda, laughing.

  “And you?” Banks asked.

  Zelda beamed at Ray. “You tell it, my love. Your English is so much better than mine.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re one of the most articulate people I know. Nevertheless . . .” Ray swigged some burgundy and smacked his lips. “It was a John and Yoko moment,” he said. “You might not know this, but the lovely Zelda here was a pavement artist in London when we met. An excellent pavement artist,” he added. “What she couldn’t do with a piece of colored chalk . . . Though I must say she dressed far more like a tomboy than she does today. Her hair was short and shaggy, she wore a man’s shirt and baggy jeans. Red wellies would have been a real treat.”

  Banks imagined it was a sort of protective coloration, the way some women wear wedding rings at work so their colleagues don’t make assumptions that they are available.

  “Anyway,” Ray went on, “she was doing the Annunciation. You know it? The da Vinci?”

  Banks and Annie nodded.

  “Well, something about the way the Angel Gabriel’s robe fell just didn’t seem right to me, so I took a piece of cloth, bent over, rubbed it out and put in my own correction.”

  “I’d have belted you one,” said Annie.

  Zelda seemed surprised. “Then I suppose you are not made for John and Yoko moments, Annie. More Robin Hood and Little John for you?”

  “What did you do?” Banks asked Zelda. He had noticed Annie’s expression darken and wanted to deflect the conversation.

  “Do? I didn’t do anything. I just stood there with my mouth open. I was too angry to do anything.”

  Ray looked at her. “Angry? But you said—”

  Zelda smiled. “That was later. My anger passed. Very quickly. I saw, of course, that you were a genius and that you knew exactly the way to depict the creases of robes in chalk, and I fell immediately madly deeply and truly in love with you right there and then, on the spot. Is that right? Will that do?”

  “It’ll do,” said Ray. Banks could have sworn he was blushing. “Everybody finished?”

  They had. Banks noticed how clean Zelda’s plate was; not a scrap of food nor a blob of sauce remained to smear its pristine surface. It was as if it hadn’t been used at all. Ray collected all the plates and put them in the dishwasher, then he disappeared into the living room and turned the record over. Banks heard the strains of “Season of the Witch.”

  Zelda lit a cigarette. Banks felt the craving, after all those years, ripple through him, but it passed quickly. Ray brought out a runny French Brie, a well-aged Colson Basset Stilton and a nutty Manchego and served them with water crackers, grapes, figs and dried apricots. He poured more wine, claret this time. “Sainsbury’s best, don’t you know,” he said in a posh accent, winking at Banks. “And maybe we’ll have a drop of port, too, later. Us gentlemen, that is. Send the ladies to the drawing room to practice their accomplishments, what ho? I’ve got a couple of nice Cubans hidden away for a special occasion. Cigars, that is.”

  Annie elbowed him. “Behave.”

  Ray just laughed and moved to pour her some more wine.

  Annie put her hand over the top of her glass before he could manage it.

  They settled back to enjoy the cheese and wine, then Ray cleared his throat and said, “There’s something we’ve been meaning to bring up with you two. We just haven’t been quite sure how or when to do it, what with one thing and another. It was a matter of waiting for the right time. And Zelda said we shouldn’t get your hopes up too much.”

  Banks and Annie exchanged glances and both spoke at once, “Yes?”

  Ray turned to Annie. “Do you remember that time when you visited me in Cornwall, and you asked me if I knew anything about a man who had taken advantage of you?” he asked. Then he turned to Banks. “And set fire to your cottage, Alan, almost killing you? An art forger. You gave me a photograph of him taken in a pub somewhere. You thought I might have come across him somewhere in the art world.”

  Banks felt his skin crawl at the memory. He remembered the one photograph they had, which Annie had snapped with her mobile during their early days.

  “I remember,” Annie said.

  “Phil Keane,” said Banks. “Not a forger, exactly. He was the one who got into the archives and forged the provenances for the fake paintings.”

  “Yes.”

  “But that was years ago. We’ve had a few trusted colleagues on the Met and various other forces keeping their eyes and ears open, but so far, not a sausage. Phil Keane is long gone. The last sighting we had was in America, Philadelphia, but the follow-up drew a blank. Why mention him now?”

  “Raymond described this man to me when we were talking about remembering faces one evening last week,” said Zelda. “Then he showed me the photograph Annie gave him. I recognized him.”

  “You . . . what?” Banks couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “I recognized the man. But not from the art world.”

  “Where had you seen him before?”

  “His photograph was in a file I saw at work. They wanted to know if I had ever seen him before. If I knew who he was.”

  “Had you? Did you?”

  “No.”

  “What sort of work is it you do?” Banks asked.

  Zelda glanced at Ray, who gave her a brief nod. She lit another cigarette before continuing. “I can’t tell you very much, but I work part of the time for an international organization that tracks and prosecutes sex-traffickers.”

  “Phil Keane is involved in sex-trafficking?”

  Zelda held Banks’s gaze and nodded. “I think he must be. They didn’t tell me his name. They just showed me the photograph. But after what Raymond has told me, and what you have just said, your Phil Keane must be a documents man. He knows how to get access to archives, to change the past, and he knows how to find new identities, how to get the correct certificates and fake p
apers. That is all I know about him. He must be someone who provides documents and false backgrounds for some of the people I encounter in my work.”

  “Who are these people?”

  “The people we monitor and hunt—the bosses, couriers, fixers, runners, even the girls—they sometimes need believable new histories and convincing papers, ‘legends,’ as the spy writers call them, or provenance, as it is in the art world. Also, because the people who commit these crimes belong to criminal gangs, they often operate in more than one area of criminal enterprise. Documents have become an important part of their existence and survival. As I understand it, your man’s skill is definitely transferrable.”

  “When did they show you this photograph?”

  “Two weeks ago. Maybe three.”

  “Could you tell where it was taken?”

  “It was in London. On the embankment. I recognized a fragment of Tower Bridge in the background. He was with another man. A man I did recognize. He was a very bad person. A big man in one of the trafficking gangs. Evil. He likes to hurt the girls, you know what I mean?”

  “Do you know where Keane is now?”

  “No. I am sorry. I never did know. I’ve never met him, only seen the photograph, but I am sure it is him. I’m sorry I . . . that was what we meant about not wanting to get your hopes up. It is just a little thing. Raymond said I should tell you. I did not want to disappoint you.”

  “You haven’t seen or heard of him since you saw the photograph?”

  “No. Only that once, in the file my supervisor showed me, someone they wanted me to identify. I had never seen him before, but I remembered the photograph when Raymond showed me the one you gave him. It is him. I do not forget faces. Not even when the hair is changed. And the people he works for are not the kind to let anyone like him walk away. As long as he behaves himself, he will be too valuable for them to kill him. If what you say is right, he has a rare talent. These people move around very much and recruit new people. Many are wanted by the police and need new identities. It is all the more important now with Brexit. The borders will change, become more difficult. It will be harder to move the girls around.”